Love Me, Love myself
by Wolf-Shadow's-Ghost
Summary: Part of a 30 day Femslash Challenge on my Tumblr. Post ME3, unspecific ending. Miranda holds very few people close, especially in the painful days after the war ended, but a new person has managed to slip past her barriers and ice queen persona, a woman with a face straight from the mirror. Self-cest.


Femslash Challenge Day 3

Anon Prompt from my Tumblr  
Un-betaed, please let me know of errors (spelling, grammatical, general things that don't work) so that I might fix them.

Promt: Self-cest with specific pairing  
Pairing: Miranda Lawson/Miranda Lawson  
Rating: T  
Words: 1,147  
Genre: Introspective, slight angst, romance

* * *

No matter how long or difficult the day, full of challenges and sadness, Miranada could come home (a tiny apartment on a trapped earth, but still home) and _she_ would be able lift her mood.

_She_ being herself, or rather, another 'twin' created by her father in search of his perfect dynasty.

Not Orana, of course, who lived on her broken colony world and tried to help rebuild, but an actual other _Miranda_.

Found amidst the other twisted experiments and atrocities on Sanctuary -a single sprawled note found while pawing through disturbing scientific notes leading her and a wary Orana on-, the doppelganger hung suspended in a clear container full of an oozy substance Miranda recognized from the Lazarus Project, black hair in a wavy halo around her sleeping face.

And she had stayed asleep while they searched through the files on the adjacent terminal, learning what insane new plan their father had tried to fulfill, even though their argument over what do to about her.

Then Miranda had placed her hand on the glass, and those vivid blue eyes had flown open.

She called herself Diana now, -after the Greek goddess of the hunt, and Miranda vaguely remembered enjoying those myths as a child- to avoid the confusion and heartbreak she had endured those first few months of her life, but she was Mirana in almost every way.

Except that she was… softer somehow, her eyes flickering with a warmth Miranda could no longer achieve, and kind smiles came to her like scathing replies came to Miranda, quick, effortless and forceful.

Diana had her- _Miranda's-_ memoires. Their father had seen to that somehow, but Diana said they were 'distant', like a holovid or a book you recalled well but weren't really invested in.

Miranda wondered if that distance was what made Diana able to be a gentle, caring person, where she herself was calculating and aloof.

Could Miranda have been like Diana? Without the influence of her father? Without the blind faith in the Illusive Man that lead her down paths dark as her hair? Or was Diana simply born with a gentler soul than most?

She spent days silently grappling with these questions, more so when Orana had left for a 'safe' (such a relative word in the time of war) world and Diana had been left in her sole care.

In the long run, she decided, in mattered little. She- _Diana_- was intelligent, perfectly built, and willing to help in any effort against the Reapers, which was the only priority worth anything in those dark days.

And then after Crucible, when the immediate threat was gone and there was space to breath between the grim meetings and death toll counts, things… _shifted _between them.

Finding each other in dark corners, -Miranda rocking herself quietly and staring at nothing, Diana crying softly into her knees, her hair cascading down her folded arms, both of them fundamentally broken in similar but diverse ways, from their father, from the horrors of the war,- and wordlessly offering comfort. Holding onto one another, _herselves_, two shattered mirrors reflecting each other, all their perfect imperfections, all their unspoken cracks and missing shards of their souls, but together –not whole, never whole- beautiful and matching in their own broken way.

Little comforting hugs that became chaste stolen kisses initiated by neither, which grew in depth and meaning between them, leading to something instinct deeper, reawaked a buried want to be close to _someone, _their oneness overruling that natural terror of betrayal, that inability ever truly _trust. _

The relationship between them grows over the months, weeding it's way around the hardships and traumas all the survivors face now, blossoming into something fantastic and bright, a soft petaled hope full of smiles and laugher, bringing a dawning happiness Miranda had long ago dismissed as a possibly in her life.

It's the end of one of the long painfully drawn out days on Earth, the kind that linger and burn at the forefront of her mind for hours after she's gone home, Miranda steps through the dimly light hall of their apartment building, her muscles aching.

The apartment door opens before she has a chance to remove her glove for the thumbprint lock, and Diana stands in front of her, framed by the beaten doorway. For a moment it's like looking into mirror of alternate lives, the same sharp face, same white skin and ice colored eyes, same dark hair, but everything else is different, the clothes are loose fitting, causal, hair pulled back in a slack pony tail, and a warm glint in the eyes and smile across her lips.

"Welcome home." Diana greets in her own thick accent, and the mirror is broken when the two of them pull close to share warm kisses through their smiles.

Diana threads their fingers together –Miranda can feel the warmth of her bare skin even through her gloves- and guides them to the battered couch in the center of the studio apartment. They cuddle as they settle on the grey cushions, physical contact and comfort easily given and received as never before in Miranda's life.

No words between them now, hardly ever in fact. No demands or requests, just unconditional acceptance.

It was all so easy, so perfect and quiet as Miranda curled under Diana's chin and let long fingers comb lovingly through her loose hair. She could smell freshly baked bread on Diana's civilian clothes, and feel their soft texture against her cheek.

Things she would have like to learn -to bake, to clean-, clothes she wished to wear but could not without feeling utterly defenseless, the household she wished she could run, all these things handled by this other, gentler, softer Miranda. Who smiled and laughed, and invited Shepard's old squad over for home cooked dinners. Hosting get-togethers for some of the galaxies most brutal mercenaries, marines and murderers like they were a kind of family, and making it work without bloodshed or raised voices.

She was every simple thing Miranda could no longer be, and she had become Miranda's warden, her lover, her home, her heart, while Miranda had to be the diplomat, the world rebuilder, had to be the best and strongest she had ever been, all for a world she'd never even seen before it turned to ash.

In this new life, a kind she never could have imagined would one day be real and true, the only thing that was missing was children.

And, as Diana started to speak softly of her day, of her dinner plan (never asking for Miranda's stories, always waiting for her to be ready to speak, to open up on her own terms, which could be days, or never, and it was always okay), Miranda knew she could live contently without, so long as she could keep coming home to this.

Herself.

Unselfish love.

* * *

Wow, Miranda is very deep.

I mean, I knew that already, but once I really dug into who she was, I was pretty surprised to find that I _really _like her character.

I liked her already but, agh, never mind.

Anyway, I changed things up a bit, made MirrorMiranda a totally different personality, in part because I wanted to explore Miranda's longing for a 'normal' life, and in part because I'm not too sure Miranda and an exact duplicate 'Miranda' would be able to get along beyond cold professionalism.

So, 'Diana' was born instead.

Hope it makes sense and feels in character. I've never written Miranda before. :)


End file.
